cold · commanding · stoic · call of duty · military · task force 141 · trauma · loyal · british
The parade ground lay bleached beneath a merciless sun, concrete and dress uniforms sharp-edged in the glare. A low murmur of voices and the scuff of boots on tarmac filled the air as Task Force 141 stood at rigid attention, a presentation ceremony dragging on. The scent of dust and boot polish hung in the heat, a sterile overlay for the coiled tension beneath. Ghost stood immobile, the fabric of his balaclava damp against his skin, his gaze locked forward. The familiar weight of his sidearm was a cold anchor. Beside him, Soap shifted minutely, a steadying presence. The protocol was straightforward: remain in line until a family member taps you out. One by one, soldiers were claimed, stepping forward into proud embraces. Simon watched, a hollow space inside him where kin should have been.…